


If You Give a Pureblood a Guitar...

by unknowableroom_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drama, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-10-20
Updated: 2006-10-20
Packaged: 2019-01-19 12:04:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12409992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unknowableroom_archivist/pseuds/unknowableroom_archivist
Summary: Post-HBP. Malfoy runs further than anyone thinks he would- to muggle London. Two months later he's living a new life on the streets as Ray, lead singer and guitarist of the punk rock band Bad Namesake. But Harry still has issues. Can Ray run from his past AND win the Battle of the Bands at the same time?





	If You Give a Pureblood a Guitar...

**Author's Note:**

> Note from ChristyCorr, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Unknowable Room](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Unknowable_Room), a Harry Potter archive active from 2005-2016. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project after May 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Unknowable Room collection profile](http://www.archiveofourown.org/collections/unknowableroom).

  
Author's notes: 1  


* * *

He ran, the rubies clattering around his feet and glimmering like so much blood. Blood was everywhere, in him, around him, running swiftly through him and there wasn’t anything he could do about it. 

What was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he feel any pain? He had broken down in the bathroom when he was frustrated. He would shake. He would sob. It wouldn’t change anything. He cried, Dumbledore died. It was all the same in the end. Why couldn’t he cry now?

Potter was giving chase. Filled with rage. Drama king.

He reached down, grabbing four of the rubies. Snape didn’t notice. Potter. Still behind him. Would he always run? He had failed. There wasn’t anything else. Run. Hide. Or die. 

Snape stopped. “Keep going!” he hissed in the barest of whispers. He did. He ran, ran as fast as he could.

Potter was confronting Snape. He kept running. That’s all he could possibly do. The cold was coming over him in waves now, as the half-giant’s hut started to burn.

He should have felt warm. The heat. The emotions. The fear. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t bring himself to feel. The gravel slid beneath his feet as he scrambled down the road. He tripped. 

His robes were torn. He shrugged them off. Removed his pullover shortly after. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. Had to run.

He made it past the gates. He felt the remaining wards as he ran through them. He stopped, looked back at Snape and Potter dueling. Or rather, Snape taunting and Potter losing his shit. 

He closed his eyes. Destination. Malfoy Manor, in Wiltshire. Determination. Had to get away from the fire, from the dueling, from the death, from the corpse and the magic that killed _him_. Deliberation. What the hell was that supposed to mean? Dogbreath seemed to feel the need for another word that started with D. Moron. He concentrated.

With a soft pop, he was outside of the wards around the Manor. He drew his wand, pressed it to the gates and concentrated on his right to be there. He was a Malfoy. Wasn’t he? The glow around him affirmed it. 

“Beatrice,” he whispered. The wards fell. He hopped the gates. Didn’t feel like using the key. A hum as the wards rebuilt themselves. He went through the process again. His room. The need to sleep. What _did_ deliberation mean anyways?

He was in his room. He kicked off his shoes. Fell asleep before he hit the pillow.

**A/N: Hiya. I’m here to tell you that no, the chapters won’t all be this short and no, they won’t have the same writing style. It was very much into Malfoy’s thoughts, and later on in the story this will come up again: He doesn’t think in adjectives. He sees what he sees, no need for description. The actual story is going to be much further removed from his head, and take on my usual writing style. This might appear later on in the story during key points, however, writing like this all the time is just abusing periods.**

**The subsequent chapters after this will be about four to eight times as long as this one.**


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